Workings of Fate, Part II - The Time That Passes
by Kalico37
Summary: Seven years have passed since Raven began anew, and she is twenty-three. Waking up one cold morning, she finds herself reflecting on the single moment of unconscious, from when she was younger, that changed her life forever. Part II of a one-shot trilogy. Rated T, because that's my thing.


******DISCLAIMER: I do not own Teen Titans or any original characters/locations/etc. from the series. But I'd like to think I can lay claim to this particular, overarching, three-part story concept centered around my absolute favorite character from the show.**

* * *

**Early December. 2014. (Age: 23)**

I awaken to someone giving me a small tug on the hem of my sweater. It's a tug that I have grown very familiar with, over the course of the last three years. I've considered taking up sewing as a hobby, to prepare for the inevitable day that will see one of my beloved sweaters accidentally torn by this person tugging too hard on the hem.

But no matter how much I may cherish the state of my clothing, the person tugging on my sweater at the moment is far more precious to me, and her needs of much more concern to me than a few loose stitches.

"Mommy?" Violet asks me with that soft voice of hers.

I yawn and smile down at her sleepily. "Hey, there, Vi," I lift her up onto my lap. "What do you need?"

"Nothing really," she stares at me with big eyes, irises colored a bright variant of her namesake, and the eyes that I carry myself. "I'm just cold," she says as she cosies up closer against me.

I can't remember if I was being ironic when I decided to name her "Violet." In addition to her eyes being a more brilliant shade of my own, her hair seems more, I don't know, _lustrous _than my own, as well. Oh well, I'm happy with the name I gave her, even if it was fairly obvious. It's better than giving her a name like "Maude," or "Rosie." Ugh. Cringe-worthy.

My eyes adjust to the light as I look around. Hmm, it appears that I fell asleep on the couch again. I should really stop that. My doctor says that this surface is terrible for my back. I think it's more to do with mothering a three-year-old daughter. But I'll respect his opinion nevertheless. After all, if I didn't, then why would I have gone out and bought a bed from the best furnisher in Jump City? It is well worth the money I paid for it…it just doesn't get used as much as it probably should.

I peek over Violet's head to check what the weather looks like, and it is indeed _very _grey outside. I look from the window to the hanging clock on the wall next to it. It is a few minutes past six. In the morning. Hm. And my child is wide awake, clinging to me, less than a minute after waking me up after I spent another night sleeping on the couch. That about sums up the situation here. Oh, and I suppose it is rather chilly, even for Jump City, which is way out on the West Coast. It must be hovering somewhere around 50 degrees.

Should I be surprised that Violet is waking me up at six in the morning? No, not really. She's quite…_different, _compared to most children, and not just in the delineation of what hour she chooses to awaken. I do acknowledge that growing up under my influence wouldn't necessarily result in a typical childhood, but even the circumstances of her very existence are unique, in every sense of the word. She was not conceived through conventional means; I have been, and still am, a single parent leading up to and throughout her childhood, but there is simply something incredible about her. She is three years of age, and she possesses understanding beyond her years. Her intelligence is remarkable. She continues to surprise me on a regular basis, with the depth of some of her daily observations.

"Mommy, are you going to get us a blanket?" she asks, playing with a lock of my hair, which I have allowed to grow much longer over the years. I have become quite relaxed at my ripe, old age of twenty-three.

I look down at the baggy, black track pants and the over-sized blue sweater I slept in. Interesting to see that despite the winter, I came to a decision to not wrap a blanket around myself last night. Oh well. All the more reason to sleep in a bed, rather than on a couch.

"Do you want me to put you back down?" I imply to her.

"Hmm," her face scrunched up as she weighed the decision. "It's morning. You need to get up soon."

"_We _have to get up soon," I correct her, and nod. "But yes; why should you lose warmth waiting for me to get us a blanket, when it's already morning and we're both going to have to get up soon anyway, right?"

It takes her a second to process, but she shrugs. "Okay."

"Mm-hm. Come on, get down and I'll make us some breakfast. How does that sound?" I offer.

"Pretty good," she replies.

"Well, let's get to it, then," I smile at her. "Go on and get dressed. Remember that we're heading out to the coast later this morning."

She hops down from my lap and heads to the direction of her bedroom. I stay seated for a moment, and look around my living room. Not for the first time, I have to congratulate myself on the house I chose for us. Single level, but still roomy. One kitchen, one bathroom, and a laundry area, but all three rather expansive. A large living room, but by no means over-sized for two people. A furnishing and color scheme, as well as design and layout, which caters more towards "contemporary-adult," but that is irrelevant, because Violet is not the average three-year-old child that runs around a house, causing all sorts of property damage to white carpets, and white walls, and other mental stress-inducing behaviors. Not once has she complained about the house, and I'm sure that if the house could talk, it would provide nothing but a glowing report of both of us.

Fortunately, I managed to purchase in a good area of the city, and next-to-nothing in terms of maintenance and financing costs. Which is welcome; the depth of my finances is still quite profound, but that doesn't mean I should unnecessarily be paying more for worse services than I currently have for paying less.

This house is also relatively new. It was built for the previous owner, and when we moved in, it looked as if he had barely set a foot inside the door once it was completed. But he's some sort of multi-millionaire. I had heard of him occasionally in financial news before I bought the house. I only met him twice, but he seemed like a pleasant older gentleman. Quite genial, and didn't ask for much at all, price-wise. He told me he owns multiple estates across the country, and this house was one of his less "big-ticket" buys, so he was willing to let me take it off his hands.

I only bought the house a few months after Violet was born, knowing that my old apartment wouldn't be big enough for me plus a child. So that was almost three years ago, when I myself was only twenty. A _lot _of time has passed since then, and even more since I left the Teen Titans.

I find that I need to remind myself of the dates; I left the Titans at sixteen, mere days until the end of November in two-thousand-and-seven. It was uneventful, initially. I moved into a halfway-decent apartment downtown, where I lived for about seven months, through December of two-thousand-and-seven, to July of two-thousand-and-eight, earning extra money by working in various jobs. Cafés, libraries, the like. I turned seventeen during that February, a date which I decided to celebrate alone. I treated myself and my stomach to various restaurants that night.

Mid-July of two-thousand-and-eight. That's where I entered what I still, to this day, regard as one of the most uncharacteristic phases of my life, when I packed up, broke my lease and took a one-way flight to the East Coast. Airport security was suspicious of me, a young woman, dressed in baggy-legged jeans and a dark trench coat, claiming to be "Rachel Roth," but I managed to…_persuade_ them of my legitimacy. And thus began a long period spent travelling through the East Coast, moving city-to-city every few months. So I spent a _long_ time over east. By the time I moved back to Jump City, it was October of two-thousand-and-ten; almost three years had passed since my departure from the Titans, and I was nineteen. I moved into a new apartment, which was much better than the one I had pre-departure. But alas, I found that I would have to leave there all too soon.

In late November of two-thousand-and-ten, a month after my return, I began to notice some strange issues with my health. I was experiencing regular illness, struggling with my emotional balance more than usual, as well as other physical changes. Of course, I know that such changes are symptomatic of pregnancy, but back then, it was never something that crossed my mind; I was nineteen. So, failing, or maybe stubbornly refusing, to see the writing on the wall, I scheduled a doctor's appointment, where I got the news for real. Suffice it say that I did not take it well; some items in the examination room may have…_inexplicably_ exploded, but I digress.

With the confirmed knowledge that I was pregnant, I immediately took to perusing my veritable cornucopia of literature for information. I wasn't concerned with the circumstances of the conception, despite the fact that I had not had a sexual partner; I've known all my life that I am unique in every sense of the word, due to my own heritage, and I wouldn't be surprised if some kind of supernatural catalyst had somehow melded with me and caused the pregnancy. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. What mattered to me at the time was simply doing away with the child. I didn't want a child and I wasn't ready for a child. I was of the utmost belief that Fate was responsible – it has proven to be quite a domineering presence in my life over time – and I had reached the end of my rope in my dealings with Fate.

A standard termination procedure would not do anything to a conception that had come about as a result of my heritage, and I wouldn't be foolish enough to attempt such a messy appointment, so I sought other alternatives. I consulted many Azarathian works on the subject, and finally dredged up a solution; a ritual that was seldom used amongst the people, due to various ethical and cultural reasons, but nevertheless proven to work amongst their own. That was a problem; it meant that _Azarathians_ would be able to attempt the ritual without any adverse effects, but alas, I am not an Azarathian by blood, nor have I been at any point of my life. As such, there was an extremely high probability that the ritual would kill me, as well as the child, due to certain imbalances in my genetic makeup, such as the demonic part of me. Nevertheless, I foolishly decided to go through with the ritual, if only so I could make some hare-brained attempt to challenge Fate. The direct aftermath was quite unlike anything that I, and I dare to say anyone, has ever experienced.

* * *

**Early December. 2010. (Age: 19)**

I stand, and observe the completed state of my preparations. I am ready. I can do this, and I will do this. I have been willing, in the past, to follow my Fate without much hesitation, but _this? _Giving me a child? I'm still nineteen, at least until the coming February.

I take a deep breath. I know how weighty a decision this is, but I feel that this matter now transcends termination of a conception. Perhaps the main reason I'm doing this is so I can prove that Fate is not infallible, and that it can't simply pull me in whatever direction it sees fit.

I take two steps and sit down, cross-legged, in the center of the markings I have scrawled on my apartment floor. Retrospectively, I think it's a shame I decided to make the patterns on the floor; this is decent carpeting. Oh well. Collateral damage, a means for an end.

I begin to chant the incantations which I have spent the last week furiously memorizing. Recitations from a language that not even the eldest of Azarath would use today. This ritual itself is Azarathian-specific, but one from long ago, before it became practically outlawed amongst the people to attempt such a procedure. I was lucky I found it. I saw a mention of it in one of my books, and so I went through the older volumes I own, to find an entry that would verify the legitimacy of the ritual. I know the likelihood of this ritual backfiring in my unique case; I know that I could very well die from attempting it, not being of Azarathian heritage myself. But I have to do something.

As I continue towards the end of the incantations, I can feel and hear a growing hum in the air. The flames of the candles standing around me waver and distort, as if a slight breeze is blowing against them.

I conclude the incantations, and I immediately feel drained.

My vision is hazy, and my head begins to feel light.

Something is wrong. I am faltering all too soon. There is still more to be done!

I begin to list heavily to my right. Well, this is it. I will fall asleep, and neither I nor child will live on. I expected this, I suppose.

Through my cloudy eyesight, I see my apartment door opening in front of me. Someone is entering my apartment. Well, if they are here to kill me, they are too late.

"Raven?!" the intruder exclaims in shock.

The voice is oddly familiar. But I can't decipher who it belongs to in time.

I faintly feel my body collapsing to the floor. This is…

* * *

…_It._

_Ouch._

_I am laying face-down on a stony surface, and there is a tiny rock pressed up against my cheek. What an annoying inconvenience, that I can still feel physical pain in death._

_So, death. This is it, then. I failed the ritual, as I probably should have guessed I might, and it killed me. Quite a cost for finally trying to defy my Fate. But was it worth it? I know I was prepared to take the risk if it meant I wouldn't have the potentially nightmarish burden of motherhood forced on me. And I paid the ultimate price. Maybe it was foolish, in hindsight. In fact, if I was living in Azarath, I would probably have been publicly admonished for such a thing._

_Actually, that's rather incorrect; I never would have even been able to attempt the ritual in the first place. Morals and ethics and other various legalities._

_Maybe it's time I should open my eyes, and at least see the plane I will be roaming for the rest of eternity. I push myself off the ground and stand. Okay, so it appears I'm standing on a large boulder suspended in the air. Almost as if…_

_My eyes widen in disbelief as I look over the edge of the boulder. Here I stand, on this boulder, overlooking the glory of Azarath itself. _

_I shake my head. No, this can't be. Azarath was destroyed by Trigon years ago. Yes, that must be right; I have seen this before. It must be an illusion, like the last time I was here. _

"_What is this?! Is this Fate's idea of mockery?!" I yell into the air. I notice a slight echo. How odd._

"_No. There are more direct ways that Fate could use to mock you."_

_I whip around, my brief anger forgotten. "Arella?"_

_She acknowledges me with a slight smile, and comes to my side. She looks out over Azarath. "Beautiful, isn't it? It looks even more glorious than before the wrath of Trigon."_

"_Mother, you're…" a sinking realization hits me. "You're not real…"_

_She faces me with a sad smile. "That is correct."_

"_Then…" I look back out to Azarath. "This…new Azarath isn't real either, right?"_

_She considers the question. "You are half-correct with that. What you are seeing is not the real Azarath, yes, but in fact an image of it. It was inexplicably restored a few years ago."_

_I turn back to her. "I don't understand…where am I?"_

"_Well," she cocks her head. "The best way it can be explained is, 'you are,' but you, 'are not,' at the same time." _

_I shake my head. "I'm confused. Does that mean I'm alive?"_

_She holds up her hand to interrupt. "Your confusion is noted, but remain patient. Yes, you are alive. In fact, you are quite lucky to be alive, given the obvious dangers of the ritual you attempted; you knew that it would very likely kill you, but you did it anyway. Would you really go to such an extreme to deny your Fate?"_

_That rubs me the wrong way. "You're not even my mother! Who are you to lecture me?"_

_The figure then morphs into an even more familiar form, an image of me, at the age of sixteen. But not quite; this figure has significantly longer hair, and is dressed in all white. This is me from when I brought down Trigon._

_I take a step back warily. "Who…what are you?"_

"_This is your Fate," the figure replies, in a myriad of combined voices._

_Maybe I should feel staggered by this. But at the same time, I have a feeling telling me not to question it. "Well, why do you look the way you do?"_

_Fate smiles at me, giving me an eerie feeling. "Your Fate can look like your worst nightmares…" the figure says, transforming from Slade, to Trigon, to Madam Rouge. "…Or those closest to you…" the figure transforms from Robin, to Cyborg, to Beast Boy, to Starfire. It morphs back into Arella, and appears to settle on that form and voice. "…But for the purpose of this discussion, it would be best for you to speak with an encouraging presence."_

_I nod slowly. "So, this is all just for the purpose of helping me feel more comfortable?"_

"_Correct. Encouragement, in this case, would be a more satisfactory course of action than intimidation," Fate explains. "By now, you know that you are alive, but unconscious in the physical plane. In a hospital, as a matter of fact," Fate waves a hand over the image of Azarath, and it changes to an image of me lying in a hospital bed, with closed eyes. The image also shows a man sitting in a chair by the bed. The man is strikingly familiar, with spiky, jet-black hair, sunglasses, as well as a crisp leather jacket and jeans. Could that be-_

"_Looks like you missed your appointment," Fate wistfully comments._

_Of course. Yes, I remember now; I made plans with Robin, so we could catch up on recent events. He must have managed to track down my apartment by searching for my alias, after I never showed up. Yes, he must have also been the "intruder" that entered my apartment when I passed out, which obviously means he took me to the hospital. How "deus ex machina" this entire situation is. I suppose I should ask about what became of the-_

"_The child lives," Fate states._

_I feel myself slump to my knees, shaking my head disbelievingly. "No…why?" I ask feebly, and look down towards the ground. "I'm not…I'm not…ready…"_

_The image shifts back to that of Azarath. "You will be ready. You _are_ ready. You would not be drawn into a situation that you are not truly prepared for. Again, you are ready for this experience. And you will be all the better for it."_

_I slowly stand. "…Very well," I relent somberly._

"_Wake up, Raven. You and your friend have quite the discussion ahead of you._

"_Wake up."_

_My vision tunnels, as the image of Azarath appears to glow brighter and brighter. It blinds me completely, as the plane of the unconscious dissolves around me._

* * *

**Early December. 2014. (Age: 23 - Back to Present)**

Ah, nostalgia. How depressing those particular memories are. I didn't want Violet, so I ended up almost killing both of us. Well, such experiences build character, I suppose. And it all worked out fine after that; Violet was born in the late August of two-thousand-and-eleven. We moved to this house in that December, and we have lived domesticated, settled lives from that point onwards.

I look back at the clock. Right, I need to cook breakfast. I get up off the couch, and yawn quietly. I push my hair out of my face and stumble over to the kitchen.

I flick on the kettle, and prepare two mugs. The usual herbal tea for me, and the usual cocoa for Violet. Now, breakfast. I was not necessarily a "healthy eater" in my late-teenage years, being the travelling, trench-coated miscreant I was, and anything I tried to cook failed dismally. But of course, I had to properly learn how to cook once I became a mother, and the days of exploding food are long over, thankfully.

It's a good thing that we get up as early as we do, because I also tend to spend a long time deliberating on breakfast choices now. It's not that we're picky eaters, but more just…concerned about nutrition and whatnot. And besides, I probably won't have much say over food later this morning. If I remember correctly, these people we're seeing later did blow up the kitchen on multiple occasions, in the past.

Hm. Breakfast, breakfast. Decisions, decisions. What would…ah, I know.

I'm rather in the mood for pancakes.

_**To Be Concluded...**_

* * *

**This was the second part of my one-shot trilogy. With this posted on Wednesday, the 8th, the third and concluding part will be posted up on Friday, the 10th. Keep an eye out for it!**

**...Truly Yours, Kalico.**


End file.
